


just another scar

by zauberer_sirin



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Angst, Awkward Flirting, Episode Related, F/M, First Kiss, Flirting, Hurt/Comfort, POV Phil Coulson, Scars, post-509
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-01
Updated: 2018-02-01
Packaged: 2019-03-12 06:44:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13541898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zauberer_sirin/pseuds/zauberer_sirin
Summary: Daisy patches Coulson up.





	just another scar

It’s strange to be inside the Zephyr again, except it’s not his plane, it’s the one from the future with all the rusted, beaten parts, its creepy resilience of almost a century. Being in his bunk is like deja vu except it’s the precise reserve of deja-vu. Sitting on his bed, full of decades all dust, is the opposite of nostalgia. But he has kind of missed the place.

Having rummaged through the medical supplies, Coulson hopes all that advanced SHIELD tech and development was worth something, and the first aid products might still do something to the big cut crossing his right cheek.

Daisy knocks on the door - or rather its frame, as the door didn’t survive the end of the world and afterwards - just as he is beginning to clean the wound.

“You don’t want Deke to say _I told you so_ , uh?” she comments.

“Not ever,” he replies.

Daisy points her finger at the tube of antiseptic. 

“May I?” she asks.

Coulson is very used to taking care of himself, to the point of hiding, and he knows Daisy can relate to that, exponentially, even, so maybe it’s a big deal that she asks, and maybe it’s something he can for her, to let her. Frustrated by - once more - not being able reassure her or do much at all for her, Coulson understands the logic of it; surrounded by talk of how she destroyed or is going to destroy the world, Daisy thinks perhaps taking care of Coulson’s wound is somehow, on some level, refuting that idea that she embodies destruction.

He can let her have that at least.

“Thank you,” he says, handing over the gauze and cleaning stuff.

“No problem.”

She sits by his side on the bed, turning her body towards him and gently pulling at the collar of his dirty shirt to get a better access. He doesn’t want to worry Daisy, or anyone, but it feels nice that someone cares about a stupid cut in his face. Even though they have much bigger problems right now, but maybe that’s what feels nice about out.

Daisy presses two fingers to the pulsepoint on his neck, her face close to his to examine the manage.

“You’re not ticklish, are you?” she asks, cryptically, as she presses her thumb against the side of his neck, under his ear.

“...No. Not really.”

“Good. I don’t like ticklish guys,” she adds, but something about her tone tells Coulson he’s not supposed to ask what she means.

Next he feels a sting and coolness on his skin. He tries not to wince - too much.

“Ouch, this is deep,” Daisy says, narrowing her eyes in sympathy.

“Yeah.”

“You have soft cheeks.”

“Not the first time I’ve heard that.”

She chokes back unwilling laughter, then frowns, like she’s angry at herself for finding that funny.

“Thank you for that,” she tells him sarcastically.

She’s very good at this, Coulson thinks, noticing the considerate but sure movements of her hand. He remembers something about her taking first aid lessons from Trip back in the day. It’s a bit surprising that she has never done this for Coulson before - but then he tries to patch his own wounds if possible.

The closeness - her breath, he can feel it hot on the side of his face, his ear. Coulson wonders why this is different to the times any other fellow agent has done this for him.

“I don’t think it’ll get infected now…”

There’s an obvious _but_ in the tone of her voice.

“It’s going to leave a scar, uh?”

Standing so close Daisy can’t hide the emotions on her face as well as she usually does. Coulson almost wants to laugh, that after they had been through, after all the stuff that has happened to them, she should find the idea of a little scar so sad that her eyes get… like this. But of course he doesn’t want another scar, either.

Daisy touches his arm.

“But hey, now you’ll get a badass scar like my mom,” she tells him.

“Like _your mom_?” For some reason Coulson feels offended by the comparison.

Daisy fumbles.

“Not _like_ my mom. More like non-evil and hotter.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“Not hot like, too hot, just the right amount of hot.”

“What’s the right amount of hot?”

She shrugs awkward. “Your usual amount of hot?”

“My usual…?”

He trails off, his body moving on its own, leaning sideways until his mouth is surprisingly pressed to Daisy’s. I did this? Coulson wonders. Her eyes so big when they are standing this close and she’s surprised like he is. His hand touching - barely - her back like he wants to hold her, his hand moving of his own volition just like his lips are. And yet - and yet for all that his limbs seem to be having their own mind Coulson feels more connected to his own body than he’s done since… since before _he died_.

That scares him, of course - the feel of Daisy’s hair brushing against, her hip pressed against his on the bunk, her smell noticeable under the scent of the antiseptic, the _everything_ of being close to her, pulsating like a vivid dream. And he pulls away.

“Wow, this conversation really got away from us,” she says. But she doesn’t look angry, or mortified about what he’s done. She laughs a bit, awkwardly, her low, almost-masculine laugh filling the little space there is between them.

And then she smiles, something small and shy, and presses her mouth against Coulson’s. She’s just as careful as when she pressed her fingers against his cheek to tend to his wound, a carefulness that makes Coulson feel simultaneously very old and refreshingly young and inexperienced, slightly frozen to the spot, letting Daisy gently brush her lips across his mouth, sweet but almost teasingly. Since he wasn’t planning on kissing Daisy today - or any day, really - he is not sure how to react to her _reacting_.

When she pulls back she is biting the inside of her cheek, expectant. Coulson licks his lips, half unconsciously, half as reassurance for her. Everything smells of antiseptic and dust and lost futures and strange new possibilities and it’s scary to hope.

Daisy kissing him might be stranger than being in the future, or standing in a plane that has survived the apocalypse, but it’s also one of the nicest things that has happened to him in… years, probably.

She moves her hands to his, over his lap, wrapping her fingers over Coulson’s knuckles. Her hands are slightly cold (even after taking refuge the surface of the earth isn’t exactly a warm place), and rough with years of training, and so real after what feels like months or even technically an entire life of fake things.

Neither knows what the next move should be - a nice moment between them, yet so potentially big and life-altering, the idea that he should be more scared, perhaps; the knowledge that Daisy is probably terrified of losing something else. Coulson strokes his thumbs along the heel of her hands, where she’s holding his.

“Daisy,” he breathes, because he can’t stop himself. “You would never destroy earth.”

She pulls away from his mouth - not a rejection exactly, because her hands are still wrapped around his,and she’s not moving away from the bed.

“I know I would never _want_ to destroy earth,” she says, very quietly. Very personally, she is not talking about Daisy Johnson, he doesn’t think so.She’s talking as Daisy, who has just kissed a friend and needs him to listen. “But after everything that happened with Hive, can you honestly say there’s no way I might do it against my will?” 

He almost answers yes, he’s sure, because _he is_ , but that’s not the point.

“I can understand why you are scared.”

She nods and breathes out. Their previous conversation returns to his mind, with Daisy playing her Daisy role, casually talking about her fear that the prophecy about Quake Destroyer of Worlds had some foundation. She had tried to play it down, like she does every time, and Coulson still feels unsatisfied that his reaction wasn’t more helpful.

He’s still not sure what to do about it. He lifts his head and kisses Daisy’s temple.

“We’ll figure it out,” he mutters.

“You say that a lot. I like it.”

“Even though I haven’t always honored the sentiment?” he asks, haunted by the idea of having let her down oh so many times.

Her expressive hands busy gripping Coulson’s she moves her head to put the emphasis on it, nodding.

“I still like how you say it. It makes me feel… not alone, but also like I’m part of the solution myself, not just something to be fixed.”

That makes all the sense, though Coulson had chosen his words naturally every time, he now wishes it had all been premeditated.

Daisy slips her hands away from his. He marvels at the loss, at this new-found want for her touch, a sharp new edge to his years-old love for this woman. He flexes his fingers, now heartbreakingly free, he wants her to touch his hand again, but he’s not sure he’ll find the way to ask her anytime soon.

Meanwhile Daisy examines his wound again - he almost forgot how this whole thing started - that frown of concentration on her face - it occurs Coulson that she’s rather cute, isn’t she? - trying to decide if the job is done.

She smiles and brings her lips to the injured area, Coulson in shock at her new boldness until he realizes she’s “kissing it better” as it were.

Daisy pulls away, grimacing.

“Nope, that’s gross,” she says. “The cleaning stuff. Tastes like mouthwash.”

Coulson chuckles as she rubs her fingertips across the cut, erasing the trace of her ill-advised kiss.

“Thanks, anyway.”

“Anytime,” she says. Then she stops herself. “And I mean anytime… after we figure out how to stop me from destroyed the earth.”

Coulson arches one eyebrow. “You mean how to stop the earth from being destroyed?”

She kisses him. On the mouth this time, a hint of tongue that sends an electrical current down Coulson’s spine.

“I thought you said _after_.”

Daisy smirks.

“A little preview can’t hurt.”


End file.
